


My life as a bastard

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge Response, Drama, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: When I settled on the transfer I decided to change everything, my entire personality. (Dewey/Fraser)





	My life as a bastard

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

My life as a bastard

## My life as a bastard

  
by Marcella Polman  


Disclaimer: I'm a little tired of the disclaiming thing when it comes to due South. I've done my fair share in raising the characters and so have other fangirls. They are just as much ours now as they are anybody else's, I'd say.

Story Notes: This story was a response to the New Environments Challenge on ds-flashfiction

* * *

I am strangely unmoved by Harvey's death. He was a dear friend, but when I find him lying on the bathroom floor at Cinderella's with a smashed in skull, I don't feel shock or sorrow. My first impulse isn't to check if the body is indeed a corpse (I have seen corpses before, I know what I'm looking at) but to search for Ricky (that stupid, stupid boy) to ask him just one important question. The content of my bladder, which brought me here in the first place, is the least of my priorities right now.  
  
When I leave the room, I realize that the urge to get Ricky is an occupational habit, and that I mustn't give in to it. I am not known as a cop around here, I don't want to blow my cover by investigating the violent death of a friend and colleague. And besides, this is not my district.  
  
Patrick and Eugene are heading towards me. "Stop," I tell them. "Don't enter the bathroom. Harvey is dead."  
  
They stop in their tracks (my sudden authority invokes no surprise apparently) and I order Patrick to go and get Matthew, and Eugene to call the police.  
  
Patrick turns to do as he's told, but Eugene asks, "What about the visitors?"  
  
"Tell them there has been an accident. Tell them the show will not be continued, but they can't leave because they might need to answer some questions by the police. Tell them not to panic."  
  
He gives me an `oh, sure' look and then he walks off.  
  
After a few minutes Patrick arrives with Matthew.  
  
"Is he dead?" Matthew asks. His face is incredibly pale. When I nod he inquires, "Can I see him?"  
  
People need confirmation of the death of their loved ones when it occurs, I have noticed. They need to see the dead body, even if they aren't asked to identify it and even if it is ill-advised that they confront themselves with the sight of the corpse because of the damage that is done to it. To be absolutely certain is of greater importance than to keep an undamaged memory of their beloved, apparently.  
  
Matthew is no exception. I warn him for the sight of Harvey before I open the bathroom door, but he follows me without hesitation.  
  
"Oh God," he says, and again, "Oh God. Do you think Ricky has ...?"  
  
Violent death invokes theories about its motive and perpetrator, in cops as well as non-cops. The theory Matthew only partly voices is more than likely, I'm afraid.  
  
The police arrive. There are some people from Forensics, a blond detective, a black detective and a man who causes my heart to skip a beat. I can see that he's a Mountie; he's wearing the RCMP ceremonial uniform.  
  
That isn't what impresses me most, though. I have seen pictures of Mounties before, and to be honest, they rather struck me as giant toy soldiers. This man doesn't look ridiculous at all, he is beautiful.  
  
We are ordered to leave the bathroom. Patrick takes care of Matthew, and I show the blond detective and the Mountie to my dressing room, as they have a couple of questions to ask me.  
  
Introductions are made. The detective declares that his name is Ray Vecchio, which surprises me for I have never seen anyone look less Italian than this man.  
  
The Mountie introduces himself as Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Apparently noticing my wondering what he is doing in Chicago, he quickly adds, "I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture I have remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate."  
  
When I see the exasperated expression on the detective's face, I realize that he doesn't provide me with this information for my personal benefit. Apparently, the Mountie does this every single time he makes acquaintance with somebody.  
  
"What's your name?" Detective Vecchio asks me.  
  
I consider three options before I say, "Johnny Strabler".  
  
It is not my real name. I am lying to the police, but only about my identity. I don't intend to lie about what I know. My name is not important in solving Harvey's murder, but it is crucial in separating the life I lead around here from the one I have at the 19th district. To my friends at Cinderella's I'm known as Johnny Strabler, even though some of them might suspect the name didn't originate from my parents.  
  
I know that Harvey harbored suspicion. He gave me a pointed look when I introduced myself to him two years ago, and said, "God, he was beautiful, wasn't he? How cruel can fate be, allowing a man to be the epitome of beauty at one point in his life, and the paragon of ugliness at another?" Then, apparently feeling that he was judging the man in question too harshly, he added, "But he is still this century's best actor."  
  
To my horror Detective Vecchio is giving me a stare that resembles Harvey's. "Johnny Strabler," he muses, "My father also had ..."  
  
I will never know what his father had, because he stops at a shake of the Mountie's head. "Never mind," he says. "Let's talk about Mr. Norman."  
  
I have to give him credit for his lack of confusion. Many people pause for at least a second before mentioning the gender of a drag queen. Ray Vecchio seems unfazed however. My wig, dress and make-up don't appear to bother him at all.  
  
I answer the questions that the detective asks me about Cinderella's, Harvey, and the boys, but my mind wanders off to the Mountie. I find him incredibly attractive, and this causes me to wonder about the nature of the relationship he has with his partner. It is clear to me that their bond exceeds the bond between colleagues. The way the detective looks at the constable when he can't seem to find the right words to voice his thoughts, the ease with which the Mountie provides them, and the grateful smiles this earns him tell me that they are great friends. But are they lovers as well?  
  
"Did things go well between Mr. Norman and Mr. Gilbert after their reconciliation?" Detective Vecchio asks me, and I realize that I have been doing it again. After Brian left me I never undertook a real attempt to find a new lover, but when I see a couple of attractive men I can't keep myself from trying to assess whether the object of my instant desire is a) gay and b) available.  
  
I answer the detective question affirmatively, and truly intend to pay more attention, but I find myself immediately wondering about the amount of eye-contact between the men in front of me. Is the frequency and duration of the glances I am witnessing normal between friends?  
  
I'm in the middle of answering a question about tonight's schedule on stage when it occurs to me that the eye-contact the skewed; the Mountie is looking a lot more at the detective than vice verse. Obviously, this could be due to the fact that the detective is interviewing me and that the constable is just lending a hand once in a while, but I don't think that is all there is to it.  
  
The looks Detective Vecchio throws at his partner express admiration, certainly, and sympathy as well, but also...apology? Why?  
  
When I look at the Mountie it hits me why. His expression is wistful. I believe he is looking at the detective the way a three year old would look at a toy in a window which he wants badly but knows he can never have.  
  
It doesn't matter what I believe, though. I might very well be committing gross wishful thinking.  
  
"Mr. Strabler..."  
  
I feel a jolt of excitement when the constable looks directly at me. He has amazing eyes. And a beautiful voice.  
  
"You have a theory about Mr. Norman's murder, haven't you?"  
  
I have, of course. I know who did it, I'm afraid. Ricky is such an impulsive and jealous boy, and to be rejected in favor of your lover's former lover...I can imagine he found that thought impossible to accept.  
  
Suddenly I feel a sadness I haven't felt since I found Harvey. Three lives are wracked by a stupid crime of passion. Ricky's, because his rage turned him into a murderer. Harvey's, because he got killed for dumping the boy who wasn't even born at the time of the onset of his 23 year relationship with Matthew. And Matthew's, because the return of his lover, to whom he had been so loyal, was followed by his death merely two weeks later.  
  
"I think that Ricky Martinez killed Mr. Norman," I say, to the constable as well as the detective.  
  
"Hmm," Detective Vecchio says, scribbling some notes. He looks up and grins at me. "You know, if you'd ever get tired of drag you should apply at the 2-7."  
  
It's a joke, of course, and I don't take it seriously, but it is the first remark that directs my thoughts to the 27th precinct.  
  
The second is made fifteen minutes later, when I learn that the black detective I saw earlier is called Jack Huey.  
  
"Did you talk to them?" Vecchio asks urgently.  
  
Detective Huey glances at his notes. "I talked to...Eugene Lloyd, Patrick Carter and Matthew Gilbert." His voice is as dark as his skin, and it sounds tired and chagrined. "I also talked to a few of the visitors." There is a meaningful pause. "I take it," Jack Huey continues, "that in the meantime Fraser and you managed to interview exactly one..." - he glances at me - "...man."  
  
Detective Vecchio seems about to return the insult, but reconsiders. "I'm sorry, Jack. Losing a partner must suck. First Louie, then Donald ..."  
  
I look from one detective to the other. Huey? Louie? Donald?  
  
"Welsh will soon find you a new partner," Vecchio ensures his colleague. Then, with a grin, he adds, "He or she will probably be called Dewey. After all, we can't have you not being a duck boy anymore, Huey."  
  
***  
  
I request Commander White for a transfer to the 27th district and he grants it to me. I don't think he regrets seeing me leave. Nobody at the precinct does. I became an outcast after I unfortunately outed myself when Brian left me. It was a stupid move, but I didn't care much about adding some extra misery to my despair at that time.  
  
In general, cops don't like gays, and the Chicago police force is particularly homophobic. Life at the bullpen became very lonely. I was still partners with Arnie Stein, but my confession left us barely on speaking terms. My other colleagues turned their heads away when they passed my desk. Thank god nobody knew about my life as Anita Man.  
  
Lieutenant Welsh seems nice. `Unorthodox' is not as bad a designation to me as it is to Robert White.  
  
The lieutenant is also very honest.  
  
"Listen, Detective," he says. "You might be a brilliant cop, or you might just be a moderate one, I'm going to hire you regardless. This precinct badly needs reinforcement; we're up to our ears in cases."  
  
He seems to expect me to respond to this, and I suppress my urge to give him my sympathy. Instead I slouch some more in my chair and utter an indifferent "sure".  
  
He doesn't seem surprised at my reaction, and says, "So get your ass out of here and have Huey fill you in about the stuff he's working on."  
  
I am very much aware of myself as I move through the bullpen. When I settled on the transfer I decided to change everything, my entire personality, including my walk. I practiced it, but it still feels strange.  
  
I thought a lot about my new character, even more perhaps than I thought about Benton Fraser. The new me should be as different from the original one as humanly possible, I gathered, for this would allow me to take my natural feelings as a guide and act 180 degrees opposite.  
  
I don't want Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser to recognize me as the man they met at Cinderella's the night Harvey Norman was murdered. I was in drag at the time, so there is little chance they will remember me, but I want to eliminate every risk I possibly can while working in the same district as they do. My transfer has brought my regular life and my secret life a great deal closer together in a geographical sense, and people around here mustn't find out that I am Anita Man three nights a week.  
  
It might very well prove to be impossible; at the same time to continue my act at Cinderella's, to adopt a new daily personality, and to make Benton Fraser fall in love with me while I'm behaving like a dumbass and a rude one at that.  
  
I can't seem to stop thinking about the constable though, in ways that I'm afraid are only considered normal for fourteen year olds. It's ridiculous really. He's just a beautiful man in a loud red tunic whom I met once, only briefly. I shouldn't have turned my life upside down for him.  
  
But I have, and to be honest, with my life being the way it was any reason was good enough to leave it behind.  
  
Jack Huey is the ideal partner for me under the circumstances. He's okay, but I am not attracted to him, and I think we will be able to get along without getting too close. I don't think I could keep up appearances in a close friendship.  
  
Jack briefs me about his cases and takes me to interview a few snitches. Shortly after we have returned to the precinct and I have acquainted my new desk, Detective Vecchio enters the bullpen. My heart rate speeds up in anticipation, but the detective doesn't bring Canadian company.  
  
It's definitely a disappointment, but maybe it's for the better, because I haven't fully mastered my new personality yet, and the one time I met him Constable Fraser struck me as a very perceptive man.  
  
"Hey Ray, come meet my new partner," Jack hollers.  
  
When introductions are made Vecchio's face splits in a wide grin. Suddenly Constable Fraser's wistful look makes a lot more sense to me. It's not a pleasant notion; it just serves to increase my envy.  
  
"Duck boys," Ray Vecchio chuckles as he moves to his desk.  
  
***  
  
I have to wait three days before I meet Benton Fraser. On Wednesday morning Lieutenant Welsh enters the bullpen and barks at Jack and me that we "got to head to Shields Avenue, pronto, because some asshole tried to shoot alderman Orsini." The name Orsini goes around a lot lately, but I doubt if that's the only reason Welsh insists on coming with us.  
  
When we arrive at the scene, reporters are interviewing the alderman and a woman who is his girlfriend apparently. From the corner of my eye I see something red that interests me infinitely more, however.  
  
Lieutenant Welsh gets out of the car and heads towards the reporters. Jack takes me to Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser. I brace myself and think `rude and stupid' very quickly three times in a row.  
  
"Why the circus?" Vecchio is asking when we arrive.  
  
"Well, your ex-wife is involved in law enforcement, Ray," the Mountie explains with gentle ease and amazing speed (he must have an incredibly agile tongue, I muse. Oh, stop it, Tom). "Naturally any attempt on her life would warrant extra effort."  
  
It's time to pull my first `Tom Dewey' I think. Apparently, Alderman Orsini's girlfriend is Detective Vecchio ex-wife, and judging from the expression on the detective's face the divorce was her idea and he tried vehemently - and in vain - to make her change her mind.  
  
It's a lot like my story with Brian, really, except that I didn't even try to convince him to stay. He made it very clear to me that I wouldn't stand a chance against his precious Paul.  
  
I shake the memory away. Rude and stupid, I think to myself, and I say, "Actually, it's the guy she's doing. Turns out he's some big shot politician."  
  
Vecchio seems distracted by the scene behind my back. "Sorry, I missed that," he says.  
  
"He's a politician," I repeat. "You know, city alderman. He's looking to become mayor."  
  
"Uh, no, the part about my wife," Vecchio says.  
  
Oh, now I get it. "Oh, about the guy she's doing."  
  
He nods and I shrug and explain what seems obvious to me. I do it slowly, so he won't miss it this time. "Well...good looking guy...lots of cash...moves around the right circles...Actually, I don't think they're just friends." I put on my best gloating grin. "I'd get over it if I were you. You've been replaced."  
  
He does get it this time. He jumps me and pins me to the hood of a police cruiser. I'm certain he would have punched me in the face if Constable Fraser hadn't grabbed his arms and pulled him off me.  
  
I make a few aggressive moves towards Detective Vecchio, as it expected of me, and Jack calms me down.  
  
"I'd like you to meet my new partner, Tom Dewey," he says to Fraser.  
  
The constable has great hands. I noticed this before, but I didn't feel them. Now I know that they are strong and warm as well as beautiful.  
  
"Ah, pleased to meet you," he says. "I'd imagine you're named after the famous prosecuting attorney and former governor of New York Thomas Edmund Dewey."  
  
"No, actually I was named after my uncle," I reply. "He sold fish." (He did. And he was, by the way, named after the famous prosecuting attorney and former governor of New York.)  
  
"Ah," the constable says. (Can a man fall in love with another man's `ah'?)  
  
"Who are you?" I ask suspiciously. After all, I have never seen him before, he is dressed very strangely, and above all, I believe that I am a man who generally distrusts people.  
  
He declares that he is Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and that he first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of his father. For reasons that in his opinion don't need exploring at this particular juncture he has remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian consulate.  
  
I feign impatience with his elaborate introduction. In reality, I like to listen to his voice. I like to see him talk as well. The man has a beautiful mouth, and incredibly sexy, crooked teeth.  
  
Jack interviews Vecchio as a witness to the case we have at hand. The detective states that the shooter was a man of about six feet whose face was covered so-  
  
Benton Fraser interrupts, informing us that the man actually was six feet three, wore black pants, a black hooded sweatshirt, and drove a grey 1990 Oldsmobile Cutlas Cierra.  
  
"Unfortunately I was unable to make out the license plate," he says, "but I did notice he was driving on Firestone Steel Belted Radials with an all-weather tread."  
  
"You couldn't see the plate but you could see the tires?" I ask. There is genuine surprise in my voice. Detective Vecchio only seems to hear the disbelief however.  
  
"Hey, just write it down!" he snarls. I feel a distinct pang of envy at the vehemence with which he defends his partner's insane genius.  
  
"Well no, I didn't actually see the tires," the Mountie tells me, "but the street has not been tended to by street cleaners lately and I was able to make out the tire track marks."  
  
"Is this guy for real?" I ask Jack. The question itself is an honest one. I only have to change the tone from amazement to suspicion.  
  
The jury is still out on it, Jack says.  
  
"Most importantly, I noticed that the right rear tire had a distinctive nick," the constable adds.  
  
"Oh, a nick ..." I say sarcastically.  
  
Lieutenant Welsh approaches us, expressing his desire to straighten something out with Detective Vecchio and the constable.  
  
When they are out of hearing range, I see that Welsh brushes off the Mountie to speak to Vecchio alone. Fraser turns and walks away. I can only see his backside, but he seems to look forlorn to me, and I feel a strong urge to go over and talk to him. I cannot give in to it, of course, so I lean against the police cruiser behind me and try to look bored.  
  
***  
  
It's a great disappointment to realize that working at the 27th precinct hardly provides me with the opportunity to become better acquainted with Benton Fraser. Even though in Lieutenant Welsh's opinion many of the crimes committed in his district require four detectives to solve them, he seems to be a fervent supporter of the `different angles' approach.  
  
As for the attempted shooting of Frank Orsini, the lieutenant orders Jack and me to find the shooter and assigns Vecchio and Fraser to protect Orsini. And not without reason, as it appears. A day after the shooting somebody aims a bomb attack at the alderman. This too is thwarted by Fraser.  
  
It turns out that Orsini is corrupt. He staged his own shooting in order to cast the blame on a group of people protesting against a controversial downtown development that he was supporting and that would have displaced thousands of residents.  
  
Moreover, Fraser discovers that the bomb wasn't meant for Orsini at all, but for Vecchio's ex-wife - the assistant state's attorney Stella Kowalski (I wonder how she came to bear that particular name) - by the enraged ex-husband of a client of hers who was suing him for spousal abuse. He blamed the attorney for the divorce and seemed to be convinced that reconciliation would ensue if Ms. Kowalski were dead.  
  
To summarize matters one could say that the solving of the Orsini case is three quarters the Mountie's doing and one quarter Detective Vecchio's. Jack and my contribution constitutes merely of the apprehension of the alderman.  
  
Between them, Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser have a ridiculously high crime solving rate. If I were a better, more dedicated cop - or a less besotted one - I probably wouldn't like it; I probably would feel my competitive streak itch. So I let my behavior express envy (which I genuinely feel, although it is not related to anyone's success in solving crimes). I behave like the dickhead of all dickheads towards Vecchio and Fraser, especially Vecchio.  
  
I nag him about his ex-wife, about his dependency on his partner, about the weirdness and insanity of the Mountie, and - clenching my mental fists and holding my breath the second the words have left my lips but I feel that my profile requires to mention this a least once - about his `faggot bracelet'.  
  
He responds to every insult with a threat to kick me in the head if I don't stop, except to the last one. To that, he calmly says, "You're a faggot yourself, Dewey."  
  
It serves me right of course; I just hope to God he doesn't realize just how right.  
  
I try to insult Fraser as well. To invoke an emotion in him, even if it were anger or irritation, would mean I could move him, would mean we had some sort of relationship, however insane. But he doesn't even blink at my rude remarks; he just stares at me, genuinely surprised apparently that such foul language can leave a person's lips.  
  
I keep insulting him whenever I can, though - which isn't very often for he is near constantly out on the streets solving crimes with Vecchio in tow. Insulting the constable when he is visiting the precinct is practically the only way I can talk to him, because changing my attitude would be detrimental to my cover.  
  
Because of that I stay in character, and I try my best to behave like the rudest, most annoying and prejudiced cop in the history of the 27th district - with great success.  
  
It's depressing. I am starting to develop second thoughts about my transfer. I know that I was miserable at the 19th. Here, I have Jack, who is really okay. The people around here don't know about my sexuality. They even don't seem to take my rude and stupid remarks too much against me. I should count my blessings, and yet, I'm not happy.  
  
I'm behaving like a man I hate, I can't pursue the man I'm in love with, I hardly ever see him, and when I do, I'm confronted with the never ceasing wistful looks he throws at Detective Vecchio.  
  
I feel for him (as far as my envy allows it, of course). He'll never get what he so desperately wants; if Vecchio were tending a bit more towards the middle of the straight-queer continuum he obviously would have yielded months ago. The constable should redirect his libido elsewhere, and not even very far away; my desk is only 15 feet from Vecchio's.  
  
It's hardly credible advice coming from me. My affections are just as firmly and unhealthily engaged as his.  
  
It's depressing, and adding to this misery is the fact that I can barely ever be myself. I am `Tom Dewey' when I'm working as a cop, and Anita Man a fair amount of the time I can call my own.  
  
I'm only `me' at Cinderella's after the show, when I'm talking to Matthew, or rather, listening to Matthew talking about Harvey. Patrick and Eugene seem to have arrived at the conclusion that after four months a man has to be over the death of his lover. I know they're wrong. Brian didn't die, but it took me a year - and a Mountie - to come to terms with the fact that he would never come back to me.  
  
It's good to be there for Matthew, it makes me feel human - in a good way. (Fraser makes me feel human too - ferally human, so to speak). It's a little uneasy at times as well; sometimes I have a feeling Matthew is dropping faint hints that he and I should commence a relationship. But he is not very insistent and probably not serious about it. I hope he's not; Matthew is lovely, but he's not whom I want.  
  
***  
  
It's early spring when one night - or early morning - as I leave Cinderella's I find myself walking in the direction of the Canadian consulate instead of hailing a cab home.  
  
My car broke down yesterday and Matthew doesn't own a car, so he couldn't give me a lift. I don't mind a walk really; it's a pleasant night, the show was a great success, and Matthew seemed reasonably okay given the circumstances.  
  
I have driven past the consulate building on my way to Cinderella's numerous times, but until recently it didn't have any impact on my heart rate. Since I came to know that he works and lives there, the effect that passing the consulate has on my system is very significant though - if not to say completely ridiculous.  
  
I am entering North Stetson Avenue. I know that it is my right to be here, this isn't private property, but every fiber of my body feels a trespasser. My nerves prevent me from concentrating on my surroundings, and I'm sure that I jump a mile high when a voice says, "Hey Dewey, what you doing here?"  
  
It's Vecchio. He is just dropping off Fraser.  
  
I am taken completely off guard; no rude or defiant remark springs to my mind. "I ...," I stutter, "I have been visiting a friend. I was just about to call a cab."  
  
They stare at me, and I understand why; these are not the tone or words I normally use.  
  
"I could give you a ride if you want," Vecchio says.  
  
It's nice of him. I know he dislikes me a great deal, but the fact that I am miles from home and lacking means of transportation at two in the morning makes him offer me a lift right away. I should accept it. When Vecchio is driving off - with or without me - Fraser will just wave and then enter the consulate building, becoming invisible and unattainable. It would be foolish of me to think that my declining Vecchio's offer would cause the situation to evolve into an opportunity to talk to the constable.  
  
I open my mouth to answer the detective when from my peripheral vision I notice the slight move of Fraser's Stetson. He is shaking his head no.  
  
It could very well be my imagination, but I turn down Vecchio's proposal nonetheless. He says "Suit yourself" and "Pick you up Friday morning at eight, Fraser."  
  
As he drives off, the Mountie is staring after him. His look seems less wistful than usual, somehow.  
  
We stand together for a while, rather close. I'm waiting for him to break the silence, but he doesn't say a word. It's highly unnerving. I hardly dare to look at him, but the rare, quick glances I throw at him tell me that he doesn't have a similar problem. He is studying me, and he seems pleased by what he sees.  
  
Just when I think that I will fall apart right in front of him if this goes on another minute, he says, "It's odd, for the last couple of weeks I have been waiting for an opportunity to talk to you, and now that it has presented itself I am lost for words."  
  
"You wanted to talk to me?" The surprise in my voice is truly pathetic.  
  
He smiles. I have never seen him smile like this before, not from this short distance, not at me. "Very much so, yes," he says. "You intrigue me, Detective Dewey."  
  
"Why?" I ask it quickly, without defiance, without dignity. Again, it's truly pathetic.  
  
"Well, you seem to try your utmost best to be the most disliked officer of the 27th district police station." He looks at me, as if to verify that this is a correct assumption.  
  
When I don't retort, he continues, "It requires great effort of you, I feel. I don't think you're as unlikable a man as you pretend to be."  
  
I still don't respond, and he says, "It seemed very strange to me, to strive to be disliked. I thought about possible motives and arrived at the conclusion that your behavior could serve the purpose of concealing your identity, of being left alone, or of both."  
  
I'm staring at him watching me inquisitively. I don't need to explain myself to him, he already knows. It's terrifying and exciting at the same time.  
  
"I was intrigued," he resumes. "I started to observe you and confirmed that when you thought yourself unwatched you were not the man you pretended to be. You seemed rather miserable and lonely to me." He pauses a moment. "I realized that I could be projecting my own feelings, of course, but I was intrigued nonetheless."  
  
He pauses again, longer this time, and he looks a little ... guilty?  
  
"On Wednesday last week I was presented with the opportunity to learn more about you," he says, and then adds very rapidly, "It was quite intrusive of me, I'm afraid. I apologize profusely."  
  
Go on, go on, I think impatiently. His interest in me is exhilarating. I push aside the feeling that it could be dangerous as well.  
  
"Diefenbaker and I were out on our evening walk when we saw you entering a bar two blocks from here - Cinderella's."  
  
Oh God, this is dangerous. I'm unable to move or to find my voice.  
  
"I returned Diefenbaker to the consulate and came back ... and bought a ticket for the show," he confesses, gauging my reaction. "Inside I noticed that you weren't among the visitors or the personnel. Then the show started."  
  
I hold my breath. It's agony to listen to him, to hear him reveal my secret like this. But I don't stop him.  
  
"I liked it," he says simply. "Especially Ms. Man's act. Watching it solved part of the mystery you were to me. It explained why you needed to conceal your identity as well as why you desired to be left alone. It also taught me that your transfer to the 27th precinct most likely had not been a coincidence. Later, when I noticed your rapt fascination for Ray and my partnership, this was confirmed."  
  
I don't like the tone in which he says `Ray'. I don't like the ease with which he has figured me out either - not entirely, that is.  
  
"How?" I ask.  
  
He frowns a little. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"How did you know it was me?"  
  
"Ah. Well, you were not among the visitors or the personnel. Of course, you could have left while I was walking Diefenbaker back to the consulate, but I assumed that you didn't. Therefore, you had to be among the performers. Of whom there were four," he says helpfully.  
  
He stops, then smiles and shakes his head quickly at me. "Actually, when Ms. Man entered the stage, everything fell into place; Johnny Strabler, your transfer to the 27th district, your pretense at the police station, your fascination with Ray or me ..."  
  
His voice trails off, giving the last words extra meaning. I feel very nervous under his glare.  
  
"Did you know immediately...when I...?" I ask, desperately seeking a distraction.  
  
He nods. "Your voice was an important clue. It is quite possible to modulate one's voice in such a way as to render it unrecognizable, but it is difficult to conceal one's age by this process. Two of your colleagues were clearly younger than you, one was older."  
  
He smiles at me. It's a warm smile. It unravels something inside me. Suddenly, I feel wild. I feel as though I'm suddenly too big for my skin. I want to kiss him, I want...I want to do a lot more than just kissing him.  
  
I know I mustn't do it. The mating ritual isn't over yet - it probably hasn't even started; for all I know this could still be polite Mountie conversation.  
  
"Besides, Ms. Man's attraction to police officers seemed quite significant to me," he says.  
  
He moves closer. I am certain that he can feel the pounding of my heart through both our layers of clothing, I'm convinced he can hear it even.  
  
"One important part of the mystery I didn't solve until tonight," he whispers. "I couldn't tell whether your fascination was directed to Ray or to me."  
  
His voice sounds so husky it seems directly to touch my penis. This can't be polite Mountie conversation. Please. If it is, I'm Chicago's biggest pervert - not only to others, but to myself as well. Stop it, Benton, I want to scream, Take me, take me now.  
  
"I'm glad I know now," he says.  
  
He is so close. I feel his warm breath on my skin and a sound escapes me. In my embarrassment a very unpleasant thought occurs to me. I take a step back.  
  
"What about Detective Vecchio?"  
  
For a moment he looks puzzled. Then he says slowly, "Ah, yes, Ray."  
  
God, I hate to hear that name from his lips.  
  
He straightens his back. He's not in seductive mode anymore. It hurts to see it. It actually hurts. Good God.  
  
"You noticed," he says. "Yes, I was quite besotted with him. He is..."  
  
I don't want to hear it. I have heard someone I loved sound the praises of a rival before and it wasn't a pleasure.  
  
Fortunately, he doesn't finish his sentence. He starts a new one. "I thought Ray could make me whole." His voice is so sincere that it causes me instantly to forget my envy and to listen. "I thought that being with him, truly being with him, would make me whole. I was desperate when I realized that it would never happen."  
  
"I'm sorry," I say. It's crazy, but I really am.  
  
He smiles a little. "Yes. I was blind for a very long time. It took me quite a while to understand that my assumption had been wrong in the first place. Ray would never have managed to make me feel whole."  
  
He leans closer, as though he's about to disclose a secret to me. "One cannot expect a lover to fill one's voids, for it will place too big a burden on him and it is destined to lead to disappointment anyway. But apart from that I came to realize that Ray and I are not truly compatible. We're not suited for each other as long term lovers. You see," he continues quickly, as if I could get distracted at this particular point, "sometimes I need to be alone. In the North West Territories the time I spent alone might have exceeded my need for solitude sometimes, but mostly I enjoyed it. I often do need time to be just by myself."  
  
"Yes," I say, because it is a desire I understand quite well. Something twists in my chest as he visibly relaxes at this.  
  
"Ray is very different," he continues softly. "He is a man of company. If we were lovers, I'm afraid he would feel rejected if I expressed my need to spend time without him."  
  
I don't know how to respond to this. `I wouldn't,' sounds ridiculously childish somehow.  
  
"You wouldn't, would you?" he asks.  
  
"No," I say, "I wouldn't."  
  
His reaction makes me feel giddy. The notion that three words from me cause him to look this happy is breathtaking.  
  
"Tom."  
  
I don't think my name ever sounded so sexy from anybody's lips (well, except from Brian's at the very beginning of our relationship perhaps. But this is not the time to think of Brian. If there ever was a time not to think of Brian, it is now.)  
  
"Tom," he says again.  
  
He directs a smile at the pavement, and then one at me. He moves closer. "I don't know how to proceed," he says. "I have little experience in these matters. I'm afraid I'm not very good at this."  
  
Rumor has it that he doesn't lie. It is allegedly against his moral standards to do so.  
  
It's a delusion. The man who is currently watching me has no scruples at all about lying. He knows exactly what he wants (me, me) and how to get it.  
  
"Do you want to come up for coffee?" He is going for modest, but I'm not buying. "I believe that's the catch phrase I'm looking for. Or ... shall I show you my stamp collection?" His expression is sincere, I have to grant him that, but the twitching of the corner of his mouth is spoiling the effect.  
  
Despite my excitement, my joy, and the fact that I'm about to burst from horniness, I manage to say in an ostensibly interested tone, "Do you have a stamp collection?"  
  
He smiles ruefully. The effect of it is destroyed by the confidence with which he takes his key out of his pocket. And the impact the gesture has on me would make Ivan Pavlov and Sigmund Freud very proud indeed.  
  
"No, I'm afraid I haven't," he says, stepping aside to enable me to climb the stairs to the consulate building. "But I do make an excellent coffee."  
  
End  
  


  
 

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End My life as a bastard by Marcella Polman 

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